One Phone Call
by Mama Holmes
Summary: When Sherlock calls John, he knows that something bad is happening.


Dr. John Watson's mobile phone rang, and the name on the digital screen immediately had him worried. Sherlock had rarely used the phone for calling, and when that happened, the conversations were never good news. He wondered what happened; did he lose consciousness while on a road and an unsuspecting stranger phoned the first number on speed dial? Did an emergency involving Sophia arise at the play group? Did something impair his texting abilities, some kind of an experiment, or-

He pressed the button. "Hello?" he said breathlessly.

"John," Sherlock sounded relieved. "It's so good to hear you."

"Sherlock, what happened? Is everything alright? Where are you, can I come?"

"I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry about the state I'm leaving you in, with Sophia and the messy flat- and your job, of course. Now you won't be able to retire and join me completely, like you said you wanted to do. I wanted this too, you know, more than anything else. I know how hard your job is at the hospital, and as soon as I'd start charging money on the investigations- and I would do this for you, you know- my salary would have made a living for the three of us, and-"

John had to interrupt, to stop him rambling like this. "Wait, Sherlock, is this a break up? Are you leaving me?"

"I am so sorry, John, but I have no choice- wait, no! Not THIS kind of goodbye, for God's sake. I would never break up with you, you know that. This is more like... you remember what happened after the whole Richard Brook thing, right?"

John gulped, a coldness beginning to settle within his heart.

"Well, I can live with that. At least you're letting me know this time. So, it's like... Two years? Two years in which I have to pretend to be widowed, and then you'll come back to me?" John tried not to let his desperateness show in his tone.

"Not exactly, John. This time... this time there is no return date. I am so sorry." John heard sobs, loud and clear. Sherlock's voice was choked with tears. "I'm sorry I'm making you go again through everything you've already gone through, John," Sherlock continued. "I really am so, so sorry." John could hear the sad smile in his voice as he said: "Keep Sophia safe for me, okay? Tell her- tell her that Daddy loves her." John wanted to say so many things that moment, so many emotions storming through him at once. It wasn't possible, it didn't make sense, and it wasn't FAIR that he, of all people, had to lose the love of his life. TWICE. Two sodding times. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he's scared, that he loves him, that everything that threatens him has a solution, and they'll find it together.

Even though he was the one of them to write- the one to type up and blog about their outlandish adventures- John Watson was never a great orator. Sherlock was this kind of a man, the kind that gives you courage, fear, understanding and confusion at once, in a single sequence of a few quick sentences. He always knew how to express his thoughts- and after John had succeeded to peel off a layer after layer and reach his heart, he could express his feelings and emotions as well. John, on the other hand, was a soldier. A man of act. A simple man who fought till the victory- in Afghanistan, for Sherlock's heart, on Sophia's name choice (Sherlock had wanted to call her Rachel) and her educational institution (Sherlock had also wanted to tutor her)- but THIS one was a losing battle. There was no way he could win this last battle, because winning it would've cost way too much. It would have cost him Sherlock. "No." John's voice cracked. "Whatever this is, we'll solve it. I promise, I can help. Please, Sherlock, don't do this. Don't leave me."

He could hear a silent sob, then a bitter laugh, a quick "I love you", and then- a gunshot. And then the line went dead.

John left the clinic with a shattered heart, with the worst mixed-emotions that he had ever have. "I'm sorry, Beth," he told his PA, "I have to go. Family emergency."

She frowned. "But, Dr Watson, Mr Fox won't be happy with it. You've already missed one workday this week, and-"

"Did you hear me? Emergency," John hissed, before leaving the building, the mobile phone entrenched in his palm. He ran until he reached the main road, where he got the first cab to pass by. "To the Scotland Yard," he breathed out. The journey was agony- his mind was swirling incessantly with theories as to what had happened to Sherlock.

He pushed a twenty pound note into the cabby's hand without waiting for the change, even though the journey cost only eleven. He leapt out of the cab and started running up the stairs, two by two, as the lift was too slow for him.

He threw his phone on the work desk. "Check where the last call came from, locate him," he ordered Greg Lestrade.

Lestrade looked confused. "Why? What happened?"

"Just do it. I'll explain later."

The inspector took the device and started typing data quickly into his computer.

John took a deep breath. "Sherlock called me. He said... he told me that there was going to be a replay of the 'Richard Brook' incident, only this time..." another deep breath. "This time he won't be coming back in two years."

The inspector clenched his jaw and continued typing feverishly. "We'll find him, John. Don't worry. Sherlock is one clever bloke- I'm sure there's no need in telling YOU that- and we'll figure out what's happened to him. It's the least we can do for him." He continued typing until an address appeared on the screen. "The London Eye," he mumbled and started running after John, whose instincts were briefly sharper than the inspector's.

John sat on the passenger side in the police car, his leg anxiously trembling the whole way. When they finally arrived, Lestrade used his badge to stop the Ferris wheel's normal activity and cleared away the tourists. Soon they started scanning the scene; John looked in every single passenger capsule, and Lestrade searched through the water. Everyone saw the look on John's face- completely desperate and full of fragile hope- and obeyed him when he snapped at them to move.

It was John that finally found him. "Greg," he said quietly. The inspector ran towards him immediately, and the two pulled the dead body from under the sitting bench. There was a bullet hole in the right side of its head.

Inspector Lestrade started scanning the passenger capsules, trying to find a gun, whilst John fell on his knees, broken, next to the body.

He tilted the head so that Sherlock was facing upwards, towards him; it WAS Sherlock, no doubts. His pale lips were slightly parted, his black hair was dishevelled and his doll-like eyes were open, giving John one last penetrating look. They were blue at the moment, and will stay blue from now on. Forever.

John closed the eyelids. He left his trembling hand on the white skin for a few moments, stroking the cheek like he used to do in the past years. Sherlock would always close his eyes at this light touch and then catch John's hand, kissing it. Tears welled up in his eyes as he remembered all these years they'd spent together, as flatmates and then as friends, best friends, lovers, boyfriends, as a married couple, as fathers.

And how much happiness and joy did Sophia bring with her.

Sophia was Sherlock's girl in every possible way.

Other than the fact that she got his black curly hair, his high cheekbones and his thin, statuesque physique, that proved to everyone that passed by that she was indeed Sherlock Holmes' daughter, she also got his quick and sharp thinking. That's what proved their connection to whoever REALLY knew him.

He used to sit with her for hours; reading to her, teaching her important little facts, softly humming a song until she would fall asleep. John used to stand at the door, listening, but he was always gone by the end of the song, just as Sherlock leaned down to plant a kiss on her forehead. He didn't want him to be alarmed and stop.

And now, his last request from John- his last request ever- was for John to keep his Sophia, their Sophia, safe. And to tell her that Daddy loves her.

"But, Sherlock," whispered John as he leaned his forehead against his dead husband's cold one, "if you've loved her so much, why did you leave her?" After the first tear shed down his face and dropped straight on Sherlock's bottom lip, there was no way to stop. "Why did you leave me?" He added in a voice so quiet, it was barely audible.

He was sitting there for what seemed like hours, crying, while Lestrade was wandering around with a busy face, going in and out of the passenger capsule, looking for the gun and taking notes in his black notebook. He'd never been good with comforting people.

Only when the night had fallen, appeared a familiar figure, kneeling next to John. He felt a soft hand on his shoulder and turned to see who it was.

For a moment, he was so shocked that he had forgotten to cry. "Harry?"

His sister smiled at him. "Yes, Johnny. I'm here."

It's been years since he was last called Johnny. Sherlock, Sophia and his parents were the only people he was close enough to in the last period of time for a nickname. His mother called him sweetie, Sophia called him Papa, and Sherlock, on his side, treated the name 'John' with such zealotry and awe and said it always in his special way that he delayed for a bit on the tip of his tongue, that his original name had become his favourite nickname ever.

"What are you doing here?"

She smiled at him sadly. "He called me."

John nodded understandingly. It made sense, it was something he could see Sherlock do. "When?"

"This morning."

"You knew this was about to happen... before I did?"

She nodded sadly and then reached forwards and hugged John. "I'm so sorry, Johnny."

"Why didn't he phone me first? I could have helped, Maybe I could have made it on time, if he would have just called first-"

Lestrade crept into the capsule again. "It's probably a suicide, it's the only possibility that fits all the facts. The gun must have fallen into the water through the door, and the ferris wheel's rotation must have shaken the body until it got under the bench. He wouldn't have left the gun if he hadn't a good reason to, you know him. I'm sure he had his reasons. He knew that when the gun would fall to the water, there will be no chance of finding it again. And look- the door is open. It all fits. I'm sorry, John, but I can't explain any more. I'm afraid that even a body analysis won't be able to get us much more information."

John sobbed again and buried his face in Harriet's shirt. She wrapped him in her arms and mumbled a few calming words, a few false promises that everything was going to be okay.

John knew that nothing was going to be okay- he had lost Sherlock.

Someone had once promised that time heals everything- John didn't know who this man was, and honestly he didn't care, but he was filled with an urge to find this man and punch him in the face.

A year had passed. One whole year. He celebrated his first lonely Christmas since he had arrived at Baker Street, and this time he was actually surrounded with close people.

His parents had invited him for a Christmas dinner at their house, and for the first time in ages Harry had also arrived with her date (he couldn't follow their names; after Clara, they had just changed so fast), and everything looked perfect. A family Christmas, as simple and right as should be- but John couldn't bear simplicity anymore.

He had missed the weeks before Christmas, those weeks that were one big "cat and mouse" game: first of all, John needed to find Sherlock a gift that would make him happy- one that will REALLY make him happy, and won't just make him smile for a moment but say that "it's the intention that counts" when John would ask him what he thinks. He had missed his guesses, his more and more desperate attempts to guess what John had bought him this time. He had missed the days when he came home and found the bedroom messier than ever, knowing that Sherlock had been trying to find the gift box again. He had never succeeded, though. John knew him and his curiosity well enough that he knew better than hiding the gift at home.

He picked Sophia up, lifting her so she can put the star on top of the Christmas tree, and frankly, felt quite lost. He didn't know what to do or what to say. It had always been Sherlock's job, to lift her up. He was the taller one.

Sherlock used to tell her she's grown up so much, complaining- smiling and stroking her hair- about how heavy she'd grown and that she'll soon break his back. He used to hug her with one hand and hold John's hand with his other cool one, and say how fake and technical the light coming from the tree was, and how stupid is the human race and its need for outer heat- until Sophia would have said, every single year, that "Daddy, aren't I your light? You told me once that I'm more glowing than all the lights in the world." He would have smiled and picked her up in his arms, this time without complaining about the weight, and said quietly that John had lit up his life before she did, honestly, but she's got her place too.

How empty did John's words seem, "Merry Christmas", compared to all this? How meagre were his words compared to Sherlock's beautiful ones, that could colour a whole world just as he wished.

And how can Christmas be happy- how could ANYTHING in this world be happy- when he's gone?

Halloween was even more desolate. Sophia insisted on dressing up like the only consulting detective in the world- she was sitting on the sofa as John was watching one of the memorial films- and decided that she wanted to be exactly like him when she grows up. She didn't care it was about her late father- she had found herself a role model. John had no problem with Sherlock as a role model- but why the hell did she have to dress up like him? She resembled him in a way that had already hurt John too much. But the girl had decided, and when she had decided- and she was exactly like her father in that case, for God's sake- nothing could change her mind. John had found himself buying a smaller version of the coat that was hung on the back of his bedroom's door, the one he didn't dare touch.

Sherlock's grave was the same black marble grave, clear of decorations of any kind that were, like John knew that Sherlock had thought, an unnecessary affectation. His whole life was, in fact, an unnecessary affectation, which he was only able to let go of in the very last few years, when he was alone with John.

It seemed silly to John, to keep this mask alive when the person behind it was dead, and he had changed so much since.

Black was a mysterious colour. It seemed dark, but Sherlock revealed to John, in a series of scientific arduous explanations that it just absorbed all the light. John proposed that perhaps it was because the black was just craving some light itself, but nothing was enough for it. That shut Sherlock up, made him think. John understood that moment that Sherlock was very black himself, but when he reached out and touched the other man's shoulder he made those blue eyes light up in a tiny spark of light.

Maybe Sherlock wasn't so black anymore because he has John. Maybe John was the only one who was enough to light up the darkness, through the wall Sherlock had built around himself. Through the mask.

And perhaps now, after losing Sherlock, John was turning a bit black himself.

He took a deep breath and went forwards, standing right in front of the black gravestone, on the mound of soil which covered his past source of bliss. No place would be more proper, he couldn't even think about any other place.

The gun was in his coat pocket, and John took it out slowly. Even now, after all those years, his hand wasn't shaking. He knew he was doing the right thing.

He got down on his knees, opened his mouth and pointed his gun inside it. He counted his breaths, the last ones he'll ever breathe. Three, two, one –

"John, don't!"

It turns out that John lost consciousness, because when he woke up he found himself in his double bed – even though the word 'double' was irrelevant ever since the incident, which happened a year before. A double bed was meant to contain a couple, he remembers thinking to himself in one of those first nights, when the shock passed and left room for the pain. The bed has been too big now, empty and cold. John's body wasn't enough to warm up the sheets, and the blanket felt too heavy on his skin without Sherlock's arm, that used to be an extra layer between him and the fabric. God, has he missed those cold nights when he was warmed up not by the duvets, but by Sherlock himself. He missed those little mid-night fights, when Sophia was younger and often decided to crawl up between the two of them after having a nightmare;

"It's your turn to put her back today."

"You do it, I've just solved a mystery."

"You always solve mysteries!"

"Hush, John. The child's asleep."  
He had always won those little fights. John would grumble but take her up in his arms, and come back to Sherlock, who would wait up for him. He would put his cold feet between Sherlock's warm ones, unfreezing them from the outer-bed frost. They would share one long kiss, sometimes more than one, and eventually they would fall asleep tangled in a hug. John would always be amazed by the perfect way their bodies matched, like they were meant to be one.  
He opened his eyes and held his painful head. A few minutes passed until he was able to remember where he was and how he got there, and why for God's sake his head hurt so much.  
As he remembered, John sat up and opened his drawer, where he'd always kept his gun in case of a break-in at midnight – only this time, he took it out to finish what he's started.  
The gun wasn't there.  
John tried to move, but sudden dizziness pulled him under and he fell on the bed again. After a few deep breaths, he held tightly to his nightstand and lifted himself up, and then pushed himself to the door.  
It was locked.  
He was barely able to drag himself back to his bed before he fell asleep.

The next time John woke up, a kitchen chair was put near the bed. When he opened his eyes a bit wider he saw a figure sitting on it. A very familiar figure, of a man who was literally family for him.  
Mycroft Holmes was sitting there with his legs crossed, and he looked at John disapprovingly. John jumped, and Mycroft said before he was awake enough to think properly: "I'm disappointed in you, John."  
"W- what?"  
"You have a child depending on you. I can't believe you were willing to abandon her."  
John grimaced, sitting up and looking at Mycroft directly.

"She has you, she has Harry. She has two grandparents from both sides. She would have managed it."  
"She had already lost a father, John. Just think of what it would do to her if she'd lost you too."  
"She's okay with it, she's moved on – "  
"Of course she had moved on! She's a child, for god's sake! Children can't let themselves to be stuck in the past. And besides, you were there." He laced his fingers and placed them on his upper knee. "She won't be able to attend school anymore if you leave her."  
"What the hell does school has to do with it?"  
"Come on, John, you're too deep in your own sorrow that you can't even see your own daughter's struggle. She decided to share her pain with her strange uncle, and not with her own father. How can I see Sophia's unhappiness, and you can't?" Mycroft said coolly.  
"Because you haven't lost the love of your life, for Go – "  
"I've lost a brother, John. Do you think the pain that Sherlock has inflicted is focused only on you?" His eyes were flushed with pain for a brief moment, as he said: "Especially having to live knowing I wasn't a very good brother. I try to make up for it now, with Sophia. God bless this child, she's just like him."  
John sighed and ran a hand across his face, trying to both wake himself up and stop the tears.  
"Did you know that the only thing keeping the child safe from any physical harm is the fact that her father was a soldier? Only the others' fear from you keeps your daughter safe, and you didn't even know."  
John's hands started shaking. "What do you mean by physical harm?" He whispered, terrified.  
Mycroft sighed. "Your child is being bullied, John."  
"No. No, you're lying. I don't believe you."  
"Why would I lie to you? She came to talk to me. Sherlock told you about his… experiences in school, didn't he?"  
John nodded slowly and buried his face in his palms.  
His thoughts went back in time. Five years back, to be precise. This time he and Sherlock had the "which play group are we going to send Sophia to" conversation, which eventually turned to the "no, we're not leaving her home alone. She's two, for fuck's sake! And what do you mean by 'she'll catch their normalcy'? Being normal is not a sickness! 'She doesn't need friends'? She's a child, for – ugh, forget it."  
He then asked Sherlock why he opposed any conventional social framework so much, and the answer he received hurt him like someone just punched his tummy. Sherlock said that he was the "living proof to every bad thing in such an educational system", and when John told him that "well, you aren't too fucked up. Just look at this mind of yours!" To which Sherlock replied by saying: "I wasn't talking about the education itself, John. For God's sake, I skipped any possible class anyway."  
"So what were you talking about?"  
"Secondary School. I was a boarder, since I insisted on completely leaving home, if I'm already forced to live in a human society. I managed to make any roommate go away. I guess it's some kind of a natural talent mixed with some sort of an acquired skill – " John shook his head fondly at this point – "So I managed to stay there alone. I love being alone, you know. It was good. Anyway, my interaction with the same-aged students was inevitable. They used to chase me with sticks and stones, John. They'd jump on me after hiding behind a building and stand in line to 'beat the madness out of this freak'. I assume it only got worse when they realized I hadn't dated anyone. They'd change their 'No one will ever want you, freak' to 'Of course, he's a faggot'. They'd break through the toilet cell's door, John. It didn't take me too long to understand it, so I could only use the one in my dorm room. Only there I was left alone, after I asked Mycroft to get me permission to change the standard lock."  
John remembers sitting there, speechless. "Sherlock, I…" he stammered. "I – oh God, come here." He leaned forward and pulled Sherlock into a hug. For a few moments, all he could sense was the silence, and Sherlock's warm breath on his neck, until a warm wetness dampened his sleeve. He pushed Sherlock back in surprise, and pulled him close again when he saw in his eyes what was so hard to believe; Sherlock was crying.  
He held him close for a few more moments and then pulled away again and started kissing the tears. One of the tears reached his lips, only slightly more to the left. John lingered a bit longer on this one, in a way that made Sherlock draw a quick breath and move his head.  
That kiss was long and needy. Sherlock needed to know that he had someone out there, that he wasn't all alone.  
John needed to feel that he was doing him good, in some way. That he made sure that the present was better than the past. He wanted to atone all those years of suffering, and all those years he didn't know on this suffering, which hurt so much to his favourite person on earth.  
But actually, maybe he failed making Sherlock happy. Happy people don't go and stuck a sodding bullet in their heads.

John's eyes were filled with tears. Now Sophia is going through all that, his little girl, and he didn't know. She's only seven, and already going through more than he'd wished for his worst enemy. Nobody deserves to handle bullies. They're everything that's bad in teens, and they grow up to be everything that's wrong in the world. And he should know.  
John found himself joining this group when secondary school started, when they laughed about his sister's sexual preference one time too much. He grew tired of being her human shield and cut her off. Just like that. He was surprised by how many doors being a popular boy had opened, and found himself making it to the rugby team a bit later. He progressed until he got the role of the team captain, of course, because like the coach had said: 'A talented boy like you, with motivation like yours… the whole world is open for you.'  
It was all great until he started year 10 – when he stopped for a moment to re-think who he was and who he had become, and shook it all off. He was lucky to get out of there.  
How appropriate is it to have his daughter, and his partner for life, to be on the other side of the things.  
It weren't the bullies that made him kill himself, thought John in a twinge of pain. John was the only one to blame.  
"So," said Mycroft, interrupting his thoughts. "Did you get my point?"  
John nodded. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for stopping me."  
"It will still be hard," Mycroft warned him. "The sorrow won't disappear from itself."  
"I know."  
Mycroft nodded approvingly and got up from the chair. He took his umbrella, which was hung on the door knob, and left the room in silence. A door slam down the hall confirmed that he had left the flat, and John sank on his pillow. He'll be a better father from now on, he promised himself, determined. He'll protect his little girl.

About two years later, at the afternoon of a rainy day, Sophia appeared at the door with a determined look on her face.  
John glanced at her and then got up to hug her, and took the schoolbag off her back and the coat off her shoulders. "How was school today, love?"  
"I'm not buying it, Papa."  
He put her bag aside. "Not buying what, sweetheart?"  
"The whole thing about Daddy. It doesn't sound like him, not after all you've told me about him."  
John sighed and hanged the small coat behind the door, and then gave her his hand. She took it, and together they went to the sitting room.  
Sophia sat on Sherlock's armchair, which she declared as hers even though both armchairs were empty now; John couldn't make himself sit in his again ever since the other one has been emptied. Her little legs were swinging back and forth in the air, too short to touch the floor. Sherlock's legs were always so long and thin, with that gap that was formed between the inner side of his knees and the armchair, even when he sat up straight…  
"Okay, now tell me. What's going on in this brilliant little head of yours?"  
"Repeat what the inspector has stated, Papa. I need to hear the facts."  
He chuckled sadly for a moment, when he could hear him in those innocent words said in the sweet and childish voice.  
"Well, uncle Lestrade investigated by himself. I helped a bit, even though I was mostly useless on those moments…" and in every moment after, he added silently. "Well, it happened at the London Eye. I received a sudden phone call and started worrying. He would never call, always preferred to text. I thought that something happened – maybe even to you, Sophia, you were at play group back then – and we talked a bit. At the end of the phone call there was a gunshot, and I ran to the Scotland Yard to trace the call. Greg stated that it was a suicide, the gun must have fallen through the open door."  
She thought for a moment. "So Papa, how did you hear him?"  
He wrinkled his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"  
"If he was standing by an open door while talking to you, why could you hear him clearly?"  
John gasped. He really didn't think of that, and he had plenty of time to run any possible theory in his head. However selfish, if it's indeed a homicide, at least he won't feel so damn guilty… he wouldn't be the one who made Sherlock be unhappy enough to kill himself, when as his husband he should've done the exact opposite -  
Enough thinking. He got up and lifted Sophia up in his arms, hugging her tight. "You little genius," he mumbled. "Come, wear your coat again. We're going to the Scotland Yard."

Greg Lestrade was sitting on his office chair and looked at them with interest. He pondered whether he should ask why John has done the rare thing – when it comes to him – and came there without phoning first, why he'd brought Sophia along or why he came at all – he didn't visit much since the unfortunate incident that happened three years ago – but he assumed that whatever the answers might be, he'll get them soon. He wasn't wrong.  
"Daddy didn't kill himself, Mr. Inspector Lestrade," said Sophia politely.  
He was too shocked to ask her what had happened – she would always call him Greg, and even corrected her dad when he would get his name wrong, again. "Erm…What did you say Soph?"  
"He was murdered, sir. You got it wrong. I can prove it."  
"Okay, I'm listening."  
"Do you have a recording of the conversation?"  
Greg shook his head. "Only your father's word."  
"I asked him at home and he said that he heard Daddy with no interruptions, didn't you, Papa?"  
John nodded and stroked Sophia's locks with shaking fingers, fixing his eyes on them so he won't break apart.

"Loud and clear."  
She smiled in satisfaction and turned to look at Lestrade. "And you said he was standing by the open door, didn't you? And that the gun fell through it. So tell me, how is that possible that Papa didn't hear the wind? It always makes such a strong metallic voice at the phone."  
Greg dropped his jaw and stared at her. "But… how - "  
"I really don't know how you didn't think of that before," she said decisively, "but I'm more disappointed that I didn't think of this earlier. The details were in front of my eyes, and I should have known to never trust the police to make it to the right conclusion…" she said those words because she sincerely believed they were true, not some sort of showing off.

That made Greg recover and he laughed and stroked her hair. "Yes, you're definitely his daughter. As if anyone has ever doubted it."  
She smiled and looked down, clearly enjoying the compliment.  
Greg started typing quickly and lifted his phone, handling the needed bureaucracy.  
He turned to them again five minutes later, handing them a piece of paper with an address in it. "Go there first thing on the morning tomorrow. Dress nicely. Make sure to sleep well tonight – " John looked down and Greg corrected himself: "Well, at least try to." He smiled at Sophia. "You've got yourself a cover story in tomorrow's newspaper."  
She smiled enthusiastically and grabbed John's hand, pressing it hard. He made himself smile too and ducked to hug her. "Well done, sweetheart. Let's go home now. We'll find you a nice dress to wear for tomorrow."  
She nodded with shining eyes and then hesitated for a brief moment, then let go of John's hand and ran to hug the inspector. He was surprised at first, but then wrapped his arms around her and kissed the tip of her head.  
She turned anyone she met into a fan, John thought to himself. He never thought Lestrade was even able to be fatherly – never thought that Mycroft was able to be fatherly – let alone Sherlock and himself. And there, one small Sophia came, and it all happened. God knows how she has managed to do so.

John put the paper down on the table, beaming with pride. "My little Soph, Come here." She moved to the sofa next to him, cuddling. He stroked her long, black locks and she closed her eyes, letting his heartbeat relax her.

She moved back to the armchair a few minutes later, sitting again in what used to be Sherlock's place. "Read me the article, Papa," she asked, her legs swinging enthusiastically.

John smiled and started reading, counting the praises given in the paper about her wisdom and resourcefulness and about the fact that the famous detective at least has a heir. He continued reading the article aloud, when –

"Good girl," said a voice behind them. "Who's Daddy's little girl?"

John sucked in his breath mid-sentence and Sophia's legs stopped swinging.

"Also, I believe that's my chair you're sitting in, you cheeky little thing."

"Dad?" Sophia mumbled. She jumped off the armchair as soon as she saw the familiar smile wrinkles all over his face and ran towards him. He bent down to lift her up in his arms and her hands wrapped themselves firmly around his neck, surprisingly strong considering her age. "Daddy!"

He held her close, tears streaming down his cheeks. "My little Sophia. Look how much you've grown. I've missed you so much."

"Why did you leave?" She asked.

"I didn't want to, I swear to you I didn't. You were right, Sophia, my little genius. It wasn't a suicide. It was an attempted murder – the best of the CIA agents in America are looking for the murderer right now, but I couldn't care less. I'm here, and I promise to never ever leave you again."

She kissed his cheek, a sweet little kiss, like she used to kiss him so many years ago, when she said goodbye when entering the play group. She wrinkled her nose. "Your face hair hurts."

He laughed. "Yes, they wanted to shave me at the hospital, but I ran away before they got to it. It was bad enough, having to stay there until I'm completely better, without letting you know I'm alive. I didn't want to waste a second until I can get home." He looked at his watch. "It's nine already, my princess. Let's get you to bed."

She laughed and complained that she's seven now and can fall asleep without being put to bed, but she let him put her down to the floor and slipped her small hand into his. She wouldn't resist if Daddy would read her one more bedtime story. 

He left the room on his tiptoes and closed the door, finding himself standing face to face with John.

He was thinner and paler than Sherlock remembered. Violet bags were under his grey eyes, and the skin of his lips was chapped – like he used to bite them until they'd start bleeding. He could deduce years of pain on his beloved soldier's face, every small moment of self-destruction –

"I am so sorry. This wasn't fake this time, you've really found me there. They took me to America as soon as you left, there was no hope – "he talked fast, trying to postpone John's burst of anger as much as he could, maybe to even convince him and cancel this burst completely. "They were planning on performing experiments on my brain – all legal, I signed some papers a long time ago – to figure out what made it function better than the others." He glanced at John. "The best surgeons on the planet were brought there only for that. Anyway, they detected a remaining of brain activity exactly two minutes before I was put in surgery. Bit of luck, I'd say, otherwise I wouldn't be here to tell you that. My head was the part that got hurt, therefore if the brain was still functioning it can be deduced that –" John used the most effective way in the impossible task called 'making Sherlock Holmes shut up'. He kissed him.

Sherlock froze for a moment but recovered quickly. He closed his eyes and buried a hand in that hair, the one he couldn't quite define its colour; kind of a yellow-ish colour, mixed with brown, grey and gold. He moaned softly in a mix of emotions he didn't know how to – and didn't quite want to, either – define, such strong emotions that they burned his internal organs. He had missed this burn that overwhelmed him every time he was near John. It was pleasant, addictive, so different than the emptiness he had felt in the last three years. He wondered how he had managed to get used to this emptiness in the pre-John days. It's probably easier for one to live without something when one doesn't know it exists.

Sherlock's head started aching and everything started spinning, and eventually he had to draw back and press firmly on his temples. It's been a while before he was able to hear John's worried calls of "Sherlock… Sherlock… are you alright, love? What happened?" He took in a trembling breath and wiped away his watery eyes. When he opened them, he was surprised to find out that he was on the floor, John next to him, with a soothing hand pressed to his back.

Sherlock made himself smile, turned his head to John and kissed him. "I'm fine, just… maybe not perfectly fine yet. It can be that I haven't fully recovered yet."

John laughed and kissed him. "That's alright, love. You have all the time in the world to get better. And I promise you I'll be right here, by your side."


End file.
